


What Strength, Dear Bard!

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: The Unfortunate Tales of The Succubus Boi [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, He's just a dork who can't explain them, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, Kisses, M/M, violence is tagged but I don't know if it's graphic, why do I keep injuring my bastard bard baby, yes Roach is an important character in these stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23448475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: It's been getting worse lately. And Jaskier isn't sure how to deal with it. At least Geralt has calmed down a little.Continuation of "How Unfortunate, Dear Bard"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Unfortunate Tales of The Succubus Boi [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684639
Comments: 36
Kudos: 338





	What Strength, Dear Bard!

**Author's Note:**

> Yup this is a Thing now, and I still don't know what I'm doing.

Jaskier sometimes felt very uneasy about the people who wanted to bed him.

He could never be sure, nowadays. Did they like how he looked? Did they like his charm, his voice? Or was it… the other thing? It was nearly impossible to tell, and he didn’t really want to run it past Geralt. That would be embarrassing. He should know by now.

He hadn’t had to steal life or frighten people in several months, now. It was easier to manipulate emotions, however. And he was getting better at draining emotion; taking people down from high bloodlust to mere anger. Stopping someone in the throes of despair from leaping from a window. Helping a cursed human calm down enough to tell him, and Geralt, what had happened and how to fix it.

The emotions transmuted into energy, which transmuted into life. Jaskier was uneasy with how that made him heal faster, punch harder, jump higher; and he didn’t like that he seemed to be attracting sexual feelings like a bitch in heat. But he couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t; once he started performing, he just couldn’t help pouring out the exhilaration of being the center of attention and pulling off all the notes perfectly. And the surges of delight, of joy, of good clean fun, simply created a feedback loop.

Geralt liked to watch him, most of the time. Jaskier liked being watched.

Yet another lovely maiden batted her eyelashes at him, and he had to turn her down gently. Her, he could read that she was only attracted because of his monster-side; and that wasn’t right, taking advantage of someone like this. The rest of his body was miffed, because she _was_ very pretty, and he was used to more sex than this, but he didn’t feel right about… manipulating her, however accidentally.

She sighed heavily, said “Of course, you have the Witcher,” and left, but with no animosity. Just a bit of disappointment and regret. Jaskier sighed too, and hoped he wasn’t blushing again.

It was common knowledge, now, everywhere they went where they were recognized; Geralt and his bard shared a room, and sometimes Geralt had a fling and sometimes he didn’t, and Jaskier never showed jealousy. Which didn’t mean he _wasn’t_ jealous. It just meant he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Geralt.

The kisses every night were nice. Being held was nice. Waking up to Geralt kissing his neck or shoulder so softly it felt like a dream was _extremely_ nice. But there was a barrier between them, and Jaskier wasn’t sure who had put it up, but he was glad of it. Kissing and holding when no one was around was good enough. It had to be.

“Ready to go?”

He jolted out of his thoughts and whipped around, smiling automatically. “Yes, yes, of course. What are we hunting this time?”

Geralt stepped forward, looking even more inscrutable than usual. He was annoyed. Jaskier didn’t need emotions to read his face. “Manticore,” Geralt replied. “You’re not allowed to get close.”

“But I’m getting better with my dagger!”

Geralt’s features shifted into less-annoyed, and Jaskier felt triumphant. He kept up a running prattle as they left the mayor’s home (Jaskier had been asked to entertain while the mayor discussed the job with Geralt), but as soon as they stepped into the road, Jaskier trailed off. Something… felt different. People were looking at him. Not Geralt, though when they had first arrived, there had been plenty of hostility—him. Jaskier, bard.

It wasn’t anger and it wasn’t fear. It was… longing. The longing of the young romantic sighing over the beauty that he could never court. And it made him intensely uncomfortable.

A young girl ran up to Jaskier, thrust a flower into his hand, and ran back into the crowd. Jaskier, stunned, did what he always did with flowers; he stuck it behind his ear, for safe keeping. A general sigh went up, and it made him want even more to run, run out of this town, run away from people, just _run_ until he could get this part of him under control.

Because he recognized this from Geralt’s stories and warnings. His powers were leaking out. And people were reacting, not to the bard, but to the succubus.

“Geralt,” he whispered, trying to walk closer without literally clinging to him.

“I see,” Geralt replied lowly. “Almost there.”

But the crowds were thickening, and more people were staring, and Jaskier was getting more and more frightened. He didn’t even think; his hand latched on to Geralt’s forearm, and he pressed closer, despite Geralt stiffening in surprise. He was scared and he didn’t know what to do and he didn’t like the hungry look in these people’s eyes.

His actions seemed to break the tension, though. As soon as he laid claim to Geralt, the people began to notice the Witcher, and sullenly decided that he was Jaskier’s thrall and there was no point lusting for him. The crowds began to break up. People still cast Jaskier longing glances, but they went about their business anyway. There were a few young people (and some not-so-young) following them, Jaskier could feel their emotions at his back; but they stayed far enough away that he wasn’t scared.

They reached a market and there were stirs in the crowd as they walked through, not fear of the Witcher, but adoration of the succubus. Jaskier swallowed hard and clung tighter.

Finally, they were out of the town, on a road less used. Dusk was falling softly, and people were in too much of a hurry to get to a protected place to notice anything else. Jaskier let go of Geralt and backed off, and realized he was shaking.

“That was new,” he said, and his voice cracked.

Geralt immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him off the road, into the shadow of some trees. Jaskier didn’t fight, still a little in shock and desperate for a touch, any touch, that was not lustful. He looked up, searching Geralt’s face for reassurance, for any emotion that would let him know that Geralt at least wasn’t affected. He found only a foreboding frown, and he wondered a little wildly if Geralt was going to dispatch him now.

“You weren’t trying,” Geralt stated.

“I swear I wasn’t,” Jaskier replied, a little desperately, “I wasn’t trying to make them stare like that, I—Geralt, is it almost time?”

Geralt went very still—well, stiller than normal. Jaskier couldn’t stop shaking. All that lust, all that desire, focused on him, it had… he didn’t feel right. He didn’t want to go back and feel it again. But if that was something that was going to happen constantly because the monster part of him was growing...

“Come on. The manticore’s den is this way.”

Jaskier let Geralt lead him by the hand back to the road, and from there they passed near-silently into the scrubby hills.

The manticore had made its den in a trench that might have been a canyon, with many little pockets of cave to hide in. Geralt made sure of a little cliff, then he and Jaskier laid down on it and peeked their heads over the edge. This was a good vantage point; wherever the manticore was denned, they would see it return.

The cliff also had no cover, and Jaskier was ordered to stay there while Geralt went to kill the monster. Neither of them were happy with this.

“I can fight it too,” Jaskier had insisted on the way up, softly. “I’ve been getting better, I promise!”

Geralt had glared at him.

“I know you don’t believe me, but—”

“Shut up.”

So Jaskier had shut up, tense and unhappy.

And now they were waiting for nightfall, when the manticore would come home, dragging its prize to its hole. Geralt would go and block it into its hole, and Jaskier would be the messenger to tell the nearest village if Geralt died, so they could send to the king. Jaskier hated that. But Geralt was adamant. So Jaskier spent about an hour shivering on the cold rock and thinking up odes to Geralt’s heroic triumph over the manticore. If he hoped hard enough, if he acted confident enough, surely Lady Luck would agree that Geralt deserved to die another day.

“There,” Geralt hissed, as the last golden sun vanished behind the taller hills. Jaskier looked where he did, and swallowed hard.

Manticores were actually quite graceful creatures, for all that they were monsters. The faces were disturbingly human, and disturbingly beautiful; the bodies were sleek and powerful; and the tails whipped with precision and care. This one hadn’t bathed; it was still dark with blood, and it dragged the body of a cow in its humanoid jaws. Jaskier hunched lower to the ground, and wished he were any good with a bow. A quick shot through the eye would distract it enough that Geralt could kill it easily.

But Geralt wasn’t next to him. Jaskier reached out automatically, startled, but the faint rustle of brush behind him told him that Geralt was gone.

Of course. Going to track the creature. Jaskier hunkered down further, watching the manticore with wide eyes.

It chose a bit of cave almost directly across from Jaskier’s position. There was very little to hide behind in the canyon; a few bushes, a scraggly tree, a boulder. Jaskier shivered and wished he were religious, so he could pray.

Geralt was only visible because Jaskier was looking for him, though. He crept forward so carefully, so patiently, as the sounds of cracking bone and tearing flesh filled the canyon. Jaskier held his breath, watching Geralt.

People thought Geralt was as monstrous as his prey, but that was because they feared that he was _more_ than human. Faster. Stealthier. Stronger. Kinder. Jaskier rested his chin on the stone and watched Geralt, forgetting for a moment about the monster in his fascination of the silence of the Witcher’s movements, the care with which he drew his sword…

Jaskier’s only warning was a chittering noise and the swift scrabble in the bush.

He flipped on his back, drawing his dagger, and as the baby manticore lunged and missed, its tail striking too close to Jaskier’s cheek, he scrabbled to his knees and chopped the baby’s tail off, heavy-handed but true. It shrieked and flailed, then lunged, tiny mouth wide with its jagged teeth—

Jaskier’s dagger stabbed straight through its neck, and a hard yank sideways tore its head half-off. Jaskier staggered to his feet, breathing hard and hands shaking as adrenaline continued to chase through his veins. The baby continued twitching for a moment, then stilled, its cute face surprised.

Jaskier’s stomach decided it was time to give up his supper.

When he had finished, he realized there was something scaling the cliff, and Geralt was shouting for him to run.

He turned and ran, down the hill, down through the brush, skidded and falling on his rump a few times and twisting his ankle in a sudden dip. He yelped and tumbled, trying not to stab himself with his own dagger and at the same time not drop and lose it—

A sharp line of fire dragged down his back, and the taste of rosemary filled his mouth.

The manticore roared in his face, but for some reason, after stabbing him with its sting, it seemed unwilling to touch him. Its face was wary, confused. Jaskier lay very still, gasping for breath. The rosemary was very strong, so strong he couldn’t even smell the manticore’s rotten breath, and his body felt like a thousand knives were stabbing and twisting in his flesh. His hand rose and slapped pathetically against the manticore’s face.

That touch was all that was needed.

The life energy of the monster coursed down his arm, driving out the feeling of knives, replenishing blood, knitting tissue, healing his skin, and through it all the manticore made no sound, still as stone, its expression dumbstruck. Jaskier yanked his hand off of its face, but a silver arc remained—and his own life force swelled.

A grunt of effort, the flash of a blade, and the manticore’s head went flying. Jaskier could not rejoice, for his proximity for the body meant that he was immediately soaked in the first spray of blood. He yelped again and tried to scramble away, but Geralt had already grabbed his arm and dragged him upright.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt rasped, golden eyes searching Jaskier’s face with an intensity that Jaskier had been seeing more and more often these days. His hands were very tight on Jaskier’s arms.

“Oh—just my ankle, I think,” Jaskier replied, rather dazed with everything that had just happened. “Couldn’t you have waited until I was out of the way before beheading it? This jacket is new.”

Instead of answering, Geralt yanked him closer and kissed him, hard, one hand going to Jaskier’s back to feel the edges of the hole where the manticore had ripped fabric and flesh. Jaskier attempted to return the kiss, but then remembered that he’d just vomited a few minutes ago, and tried to pull away. Geralt let him break the kiss, then pulled Jaskier tight to his chest, still inspecting the wound. Well, not really a wound anymore; Jaskier could feel that it had healed completely. He could also feel his stomach heaving. Again.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he said, muffled by Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt let go, and Jaskier turned away to bend over and vomit up something sticky and black and so toxic that it killed the grass it touched in seconds. He spluttered and spat until the last of it was out of his mouth, thought about wiping his mouth on his sleeve, then decided he’d rather not smear more blood around. The taste of rosemary faded.

“Come on, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, gently taking hold of his arm. “Let’s go claim our reward.”

“Bath,” Jaskier croaked.

“That, too.”

~

The bath was nice, though he had to exert quite a bit of charm ( _not_ emotion-manipulating magic) to get the giggling maids to let him wash in peace. He looked at as much of himself as he could in the mirror, inspecting the scar. It was puffy and raw, but he had the feeling it would go down quickly, and become as smooth and shiny as Geralt’s many scars.

He kept seeing the baby manticore’s face after he’d killed it. He’d never killed something with a human face, before.

Geralt decided they could stand to stay in the same town for a few days; get Roach’s tack repaired, finally get their clothes cleaned, and replenish their supplies. Also let Jaskier’s ankle heal, but he didn’t mention that.

Jaskier did not use his bloated life force to heal unnaturally quickly. He was too grateful to have an excuse to stay in a nice room away from other people, and compose quietly, and not have to turn away lustful stares. He liked that, for most of the day, he was alone, except for the shy maid who brought him meals and medicine. Geralt always came as the clocks chimed eight in the evening, to check his ankle, and hear his latest attempts to immortalize Geralt’s heroism. Jaskier couldn’t help but remember all those times Geralt had strained or sprained a joint and grunted “I’ll walk it off,” and refused to rest more than a day. He also couldn’t help but remember how Geralt seemed to… not _coddle_ , but hover, definitely. He hovered, making sure Jaskier was comfortable, checking that he was healing, and staring intently as Jaskier tried his latest tunes.

“You are the worst audience I’ve ever had,” Jaskier had said with a smile. “No feedback at all.”

Geralt had maybe smiled back. “You sing well,” he’d said.

Jaskier still treasured that single sentence.

But after a week, the mayor was tired of them (mostly Geralt), so they packed up and moved on. People still stared. Girls still shyly gave him flowers. But Jaskier did his best, his very best, to rein in whatever it was that was making people like him, and it seemed to work.

When they were away from the town, Jaskier sighed, and, impulsively, took a daisy from his bouquet and reached forward to tuck it behind Geralt’s ear. Geralt jerked around and stared at him, hand rising to touch the daisy.

Jaskier grinned. “Looks nice with your hair,” he teased.

Geralt stood frozen for a moment. His eyes were much wider than usual. Jaskier’s grin faded the longer they stood there.

Roach broke the moment by plucking the daisy from Geralt’s hair and eating it. Jaskier gasped in outrage at the horse.

“Roach! How dare you! That wasn’t for you!” he scolded angrily. The horse just whinnied, definitely laughing at him.

Geralt reached out, yanked a bluebell from the bouquet, and thrust it a little clumsily into Jaskier’s hair. Then he turned away and kept walking.

Jaskier grinned again and skipped after him, singing softly about the beauty of summer.

They took shelter in a cave from a sudden rainstorm and Jaskier realized how much Geralt must have missed kissing him, because when he sat on the ground to care for his lute, Geralt sat next to him, set the instrument aside, and pulled Jaskier half into his lap to kiss him thoroughly. It was lovely, relaxing against Geralt’s chest and just sharing this moment, this intimacy. Even with Roach there, it felt like total isolation. There was nothing in the world but Geralt and that was all he needed in that moment.

When the rain let up, they stood reluctantly, pulled out their cloaks (Jaskier had decided to stop letting Geralt throw his own at Jaskier every time it rained), and kept going. There were tales of something eating maidens a few miles away, so they went there.

They got there as night was falling. The pub was half-empty, and suspicious glowers were turned on Geralt… until Jaskier pushed back his hood and looked around, and suddenly all eyes were on him.

“Oh glory,” whispered an awed voice in a corner. Jaskier turned to look, surprised, and saw a rather small and stooped teenage girl staring at him in awe. He gave her a quick smile, then followed Geralt to the bar, where the keeper of the drink was looking between them in confusion.

“Eh… what can I get you, Witcher?” the man asked warily.

“Ale,” Geralt grunted. “For both of us.”

“Aye, sir.” The man turned away and fumbled for two clean pints.

“Um… excuse me.” Someone tugged on Jaskier’s cloak. He looked down, and saw the girl again. She was blushing, and held up a rather crushed bluebell. “This fell out of your hood,” she said shyly.

“Oh! Thank you,” he replied, smiling again as he took the flower and stuck it back in his hair. “Nearly forgot about that.”

Geralt glanced at him, and blinked at the flower, but said nothing. The barman slid two pint mugs across the bar to them, and they sat to drink. Jaskier did not make a face at the sediment in his ale; he’d had worse. The faintest trace of rosemary drifted across his tongue, and he wondered nervously if this ale really was poisonous. Geralt probably wouldn’t get worse than a stomach ache, but Jaskier was more… hmm… delicate. It came with being human.

“So, uh, you here for the creature?” the barman asked Geralt, but his eyes kept flicking to Jaskier. Jaskier stubbornly refused to meet his gaze, instead gazing around the pub. Dirty, dark, disgusting. But the denizens kept looking at him, and he didn’t like that. He was holding on to his influence as hard as he could, trying to keep from attracting anyone—

The barman’s eyes snapped to a place behind Jaskier, and he scowled. “Sabrina, get out,” he snapped harshly. “Go tend these folks’ horses.”

“Only one horse, papa,” Sabrina, the girl, said tentatively. “And Henri is taking care of—”

“Well make sure he didn’t fuck up!”

Hurried footsteps, the opening and closing of the door. Jaskier stared at his ale, wondering why he was so angry. This had happened before after all. But she had seemed… nice. Nicer than other teenage girls who had tried to get his attention.

A man stood from a crowded table and walked heavily over to Geralt. Jaskier took a sip of ale and kicked Geralt’s ankle very gently. Geralt kicked back, agreeing to watch himself. The man did not look nice.

“Ya didn’t answer,” he said to Geralt, slumping against the bar and scowling.

“I’m here for the monster,” Geralt told the barman. “Is there a reward?”

“Aye. Tol, go away,” the barman told the drunk man angrily.

“No.” Tol looked at Jaskier, who almost recoiled at the intense lust that began rolling off him. Instead, Jaskier met his eyes and tried to make Tol frightened. He almost managed, before the barman interrupted hurriedly.

“There’s a standing reward of fifty, but that’s all we can manage,” he told Geralt, with a nervous glance to Jaskier. What had his face looked like? “I can get in some of the families of the missin’ girls and they can tell you what happened.”

“That would be appreciated,” Geralt replied gravely, then turned to Tol, and in a much harder and angrier growl, “Do you mind?”

Tol gave him a frightened, sullen glare, and slumped back to his table. Geralt turned the other way, to Jaskier.

“Do you feel up to entertaining dolts while I find out what the hell is going on?” he asked quietly, shooting a look at the barman, who immediately decided he had to go do something at the other end of the bar.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier admitted softly. “I might have to hurt someone. And I would like to ask you about something—later.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, and Jaskier got the impression that he knew exactly what the questions would be. But he nodded, and said, “Aim for the dick or the throat.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Jaskier replied, allowing himself a small scowl. He hadn’t had to protect himself from bigger, stronger men since he started traveling with Geralt, but there was always a possibility that he might need the skills he’d picked up through his career. Being cute had disadvantages.

The families arrived, some anxious, some ragged, some angry. Geralt moved to a table, and people gathered around him, answering his short, sharp questions. Jaskier quietly strolled to a seat by the fire, sipping his ale and watching the door. He knew Geralt was keeping track of him. He could warn Geralt if anyone suspicious came in.

Tol shuffled into Jaskier’s view and got in close. He smiled, showing rotting teeth, and slurred, “Why do you travel with a bastard like the Witcher? You’re too pretty for him.”

“He’s got better hygiene than you, for one,” Jaskier retorted, annoyed on Geralt’s behalf. “And he’s a hero. You think humanity would last ten years without the Witchers?”

Tol shuffled even closer. His breath smelled like ale and decay. Jaskier tensed as Tol began to grow angry. “Heroes don’t demand coin for helping people,” Tol hissed.

“Heroes need to eat too, asshole,” Jaskier replied, also becoming angry. “Go away. I’m weary of your face.”

Tol’s face screwed up in a scowl, but he backed off and stomped to a table. Jaskier looked around, and many fascinated faces looked away quickly. Geralt was staring at him. Jaskier smiled a little, and Geralt nodded slightly before turning back to the man who was spilling his woes along with his beer.

Finally, Geralt had all the information he needed. When Jaskier raised an eyebrow as Geralt stood, Geralt shook his head. Jaskier scowled, but took another drink. So it was something he couldn’t help with, or shouldn’t. Oh well. Geralt would come back alive or Jaskier would go find him and drag him to the nearest bed to heal up.

The barman approached Jaskier, stopping farther away than Tol had, and asked, “Would you mind givin’ us a song or two?”

Jaskier smiled, keeping his influence back as best he could. “I will, but first, I, too, would like to hear the stories. Geralt won’t tell me anything and I would love to write a song about this.”

He pitched his voice to carry, and almost immediately, everyone who had spoken to the Witcher migrated to the bard. Someone fetched his saddlebag, and he fished out his quill, the inkwell Yennefer had bespelled to never run dry or spill (some advantages to a dubious truce with a sorceress who was glad of his kind words), and some paper, and began to write. It was a little over an hour before he got out the best information, and he decided to boost their spirits with tales of similar monsters that had perished at the hands of not only Geralt, but particularly skilled humans. The taste of rosemary lingered on his tongue, so he graciously declined the offer of another drink.

He had soon created a much more hopeful pub, even as the day darkened to evening. Some people went home; some people came in because they heard a Real Bard had arrived. Jaskier was happy to perform for them; he had to do _something_ while he waited, after all. The stooped girl who had given him his flower back snuck up to him between songs and gave him a ring of flowers, fresh and sap-sticky. He smiled his thanks at her and promptly put it on his head. She giggled, and scurried away before she could be scolded.

It was great until Tol stood up and shouted, right as Jaskier was getting to the highlight of the ballad, “You stupid fucking whore, you’re only with him because he fucks you!”

Jaskier closed his mouth, and turned on his stool to look at Tol. Everyone else was looking too, and he could feel their anger and outrage. Strangely, he himself felt quite calm.

“I am going to give you the whore comment,” Jaskier replied, as Tol’s eyes darted around the crowd and he realized the mistake he’d made, “Because I have great respect for the women and men who have sex for money, and it is an honor to be counted in their number. But saying I’m only “with” Geralt of Rivia because he fucks me is degrading, not to me, but to him.” Jaskier stood, and casually rested his hand on the pommel of his dagger. “He’s a good man, Tol. Better than you. He’s also my friend. I travel with him because we protect each other and enjoy each other’s company. Whereas you are a drunkard and a fool who judges people based on rumors and hearsay.”

Tol was shaking, but he drew together words and spat, “Witchers don’t have friends!”

“Oh, that’s just feeble,” Jaskier retorted scornfully. “How the hell do you know that?”

Tol’s face showed the exact moment he realized he couldn’t get out of this without letting Jaskier win. So he snarled, plowed through the crowd, and drew his arm back to punch—

Jaskier had already slung his lute backwards, behind him and out of his way, stepped forward, dodged the punch, and grabbed Tol’s shirt front. With all his strength, he drove his knee up into Tol’s crotch.

Tol choked, and when Jaskier shoved him back, he collapsed to the floor and curled into the fetal position, cradling his injured bits and beginning to cry.

Jaskier straightened his flower-circlet and sat down again. “Master Jeorge,” he called to the barman, “Do you have a stick to poke this rubbish under a table with until he recovers?”

“I c’n do better than that, Master Bard,” Jeorge replied, stomping forward with a terrific scowl. Three other strong men stood too, and between the four of them, they got Tol dragged to a corner far from Jaskier.

There was an awkward silence, as Jaskier realized he’d never had to defend himself quite so publicly before. He smiled, and some of the tension eased. “So, shall we finish the song, or start a new one?” he asked the crowd.

“Finish, finish!” one small child cried, bouncing in his mother’s lap. Nods and smiles all around, and Jaskier grinned, pulled his lute back around, and picked up where he’d left off.

No one wanted to leave the pub after night fell; parents clung to their daughters, daughters clung to the people they trusted. Jaskier stood and began slowly circling the pub, humming lullabies and gently strumming his lute, checking outside the two windows when he passed them. Quietly, heavy objects were stacked against the front and back doors. No one spoke above a whisper.

At midnight, Jaskier felt something like a string tugging the middle of his chest, and froze. Everyone still awake looked at him, as he cocked his head and listened hard.

The crackle of the fireplace. The breathing of the people. The whimper of a child. The faint roars of something angry and hungry, just outside the village bounds.

“Block the windows,” Jaskier said harshly.

There was an immediate scramble to shutter and cover the windows, and Jaskier moved to the fireplace, watching the occupants of the pub. He could still hear… out there, the roaring was angrier, but hoarser, and less frequent. His heart began pounding. It was still coming closer.

A final scream, so loud that even the people inside heard it and flinched; a child gasped. Jaskier put down his lute and scrambled for the door, vaulting bodies and skipping around puddles.

Jeorge blocked him, but before he could speak, Jaskier said, “Let me out. If Geralt’s alive, he’s probably hurt. The monster’s dead. If it isn’t I’ll shout.”

Jeorge searched his face, and Jaskier stared at him, willing him to say yes. Finally, Jeorge nodded, and he and two other men shifted the objects in front of the door enough to let Jaskier slip out.

It was dark, but the moon and stars were bright. Jaskier hesitated just long enough for his eyes to begin to adjust, then drew his dagger and walked as silently as he could towards the scream.

He saw Geralt first, a moving shadow with yellow eyes and pale hair. His shoulders were bowed, and he was dragging the body of some creature Jaskier couldn’t name.

“Geralt,” he breathed, and Geralt’s head snapped up.

“Jaskier, what the hell!” Geralt hissed, dropping the creature and striding towards Jaskier, who sheathed his dagger and walked to him eagerly. “You were supposed to stay—!”

Jaskier didn’t let him finish, kissing him deeply for a moment, before pulling away and inspecting Geralt’s face as well as he could in the gloom. A cut over his eyebrow, a long scrape on his jaw, but nothing else on his face or neck. “Anything broken?” Jaskier asked briskly. “An arm, a finger, your skull?”

Geralt shook his head.

“Any gashes, wounds, punctures, or other nasty things?”

Another shake.

“You’re tired.”

A nod.

“Alright. Are there more? No? Then let’s go back, get your face patched up.” Jaskier noticed that Geralt has been staring at him with a strangely soft expression throughout this one-sided conversation. “What? What’s wrong?”

“You stayed up for me,” Geralt stated.

“Of course I did,” Jaskier replied, annoyed, and grabbed his hand, tugging him gently to the pub. “I always do. Now come on.”

~

They were four days out when they stopped in a wood, set up by a stream, and Geralt said bluntly, “You’re different.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and continued wrapping his knuckles (he’d punched a man for grabbing his ass while passing in the road, which had necessitated a brief brawl that he had been _winning_ before Geralt broke it up and also broke the man’s arm). “We had this conversation last month,” he replied in exasperation.

“No. You wanted to tell me something, but you haven’t yet.”

Jaskier tensed, and focused on his hands. “Ah. Yes. Hmm. About that...”

“I know what it is.”

Jaskier flinched.

Geralt crouched down beside him, and grabbed his hand, to inspect his bandaging job. Without looking at Jaskier’s face, he said, “The more you change, the more beautiful you are.”

Though Jaskier knew this was not meant as a compliment, he still began to blush deeply. For once, he was the silent one in the conversation.

“Succubi are beautiful, you know that. When a person begins to turn into one, they too become beautiful. It’s not the same beauty from person to person. One man will see large eyes, another will see a small waist. It’s not a natural or understandable beauty, and it draws the eye as no merely aesthetically attractive human can.” Geralt still hadn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand. His eyes were focused on something else, though, and he was frowning, as he often did when dredging up monster facts for Jaskier. “There is also an aura, of sorts. That is why, in that pub, and that town with the manticore, everyone looked at you like that. You are something beyond mortal, but you aren’t so far that they fear you. And I don’t think you ever will be. You’re… still too human for that.”

“Oh,” Jaskier finally said, awkwardly. “That’s… actually quite reassuring.” He swallowed hard, and asked very softly, “Does this aura affect you, too?”

Geralt was silent for several minutes. Jaskier stared at his profile, trying to catch every thought and emotion. There were none that he could see. Only a thoughtful frown.

“I don’t know,” Geralt replied, after far too long. “I know you look exactly the same, to me, as you did when we first met. It is possible that magic does not work on me, and it’s true that no succubus I’ve faced this far has dragged me in like they would a human.”

“Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you kiss me?”

Even the frown vanished as Geralt’s face blanked. Jaskier took a deep breath and repeated, “Why did you kiss me? When that king tried to kill me, and we had to run… why did you do that?”

Geralt dropped his hand, stood, and walked away.

Jaskier pressed his lips together tightly, debating whether he should press the issue. In the end, he decided not to. He’d already gotten plenty of words out of Geralt; it might be that his supply of conversation for the day had run out. It hurt, though, more than he thought it would, that Geralt didn’t want to tell him. Maybe he didn’t know either.

They set up camp silently, and then Geralt drew his own dagger, chipped on one edge but true, and told Jaskier, “Practice.”

Jaskier scowled, but fetched his and faced Geralt on the uneven ground on the far side of the campfire from Roach. Geralt was always choosing hard places to practice fighting. Then again, pre-Geralt, Jaskier had often had to protect himself on even worse footing. At least if he tripped on a fallen branch here, Geralt would stop until he was sure Jaskier wasn’t hurt too badly to move.

Geralt never gave any warning when he attacked. But Jaskier had gotten used to that; had learned when to pinpoint Geralt’s exact moment of forward motion. He’d even managed to dodge a time or two. But Geralt had been fighting creatures stronger and faster than him his entire adult life, and he apparently saw no reason for Jaskier to be less well-trained, even if the lessons were sporadic.

They “fought” for a solid ten minutes, before Geralt’s blade slithered past Jaskier’s and halted just as the edge brushed his throat. Jaskier jerked back automatically, and fell on his rump with an undignified yelp.

“Enough,” Geralt said, and walked over to Roach to fetch his crossbow and quiver. He was going to hunt for dinner, then. Fine. Jaskier needed time to catch his breath and wash the sweat from his face and neck. His hand hurt from gripping his dagger so hard, and from the various hard impacts he’d blocked from Geralt. At least Geralt hadn’t insisted on hand-to-hand combat today, too.

By the time Jaskier had gotten the rest of the ingredients put together and the fire to a good strength, Geralt had returned with two rabbits. Jaskier glared. Geralt scowled, but turned around and walked several yards away from the campsite to gut and skin his kill. Why did he forget to do that so often?

Roach whuffled in Jaskier’s hair, and he pushed her nose away gently. “No. These are for _our_ supper. Eat some flowers.”

She blew at him, getting horse snot on his face, and returned sulkily to her post. He grimaced and got up to wash it off.

When he finished, Geralt had returned, and was threading rabbit-meat on to sharpened sticks. More had been cut up and thrown in the tiny pot to start cooking. They would take longer than the rice and dried herbs that Jaskier was planning to add.

When dinner was done and they had eaten, Geralt walked away to a tree and settled into his special way of sitting he had when he did that thing he’d told Jaskier was meditation. Jaskier got out his notes and worked on that final stanza of the latest song. In the song it was the beautiful young daughter of the publican who ran to greet the Witcher after his kill. He still didn’t feel right putting himself into tales of Geralt’s triumphs.

And he was _not_ going to write about their softer moments together. The kisses and cuddles and such. Those were private.

It took Geralt walking over with his bedroll under his arm for Jaskier to realize the sun had gone and he’d been straining over the words by the light of the dying fire. He sighed heavily and put everything away, then shifted so Geralt could lay down next to him. Jaskier had barely gotten comfortable on his side facing away—facing Geralt would result in awkward staring until Jaskier turned over—when Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist and he wriggled closer, so they were flush together, Jaskier snug in Geralt’s curve. It felt so natural and safe by this time that Jaskier relaxed immediately, weaving his fingers with Geralt’s and smiling as Geralt’s free hand sifted slowly through Jaskier’s hair.

“I kissed you because I didn’t want to lose you before I did so.”

Jaskier blinked, but was too comfortable to tense up in surprise. Instead he stared at the fire, which had been banked and was dying very slowly. Geralt continued, very softly, breath hot and gentle on Jaskier’s neck.

“That particular king—that particular city—heard that I traveled with an immortal being who claimed to be a bard. Naturally, they thought you were some kind of monster. A siren or something. They wanted to interrogate me about you, but I refused. So the king decided to have you brought to the castle and poisoned, to kill you if you were human or prove that you were a creature worth killing. I tried to talk him out of it, but the order was already given. And when we ran… I thought we would be caught. I didn’t want to lose you without a kiss.”

Jaskier stared at the fire, and rubbed Geralt’s thumb gently with his own. This was far more information than he had expected. He almost didn’t want to say anything, but he had a feeling that Geralt wanted an answer.

“I’m glad you did,” he said finally, just as softly. “I really am. And I’m glad you keep doing so.”

Geralt pressed a soft kiss to Jaskier’s neck, and then they both settled into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments = love, life, and happiness!!


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